The Liturgical Act and the Church of the 21st Century

Rev. Robert Barron

An Address Given to the Society of Catholic Liturgy

In April of 1964, Romano Guardini wrote an open letter to Johannes Wagner in connection with the Third German Liturgical Conference. The missive bore the title Der Kultakt und die Gegenwärtige Aufgabe der Liturgischen Bildung (The Cult Act and the Present Task of Liturgical Education). Toward the end of this somewhat rambling text, Guardini delivered himself of the line that has inspired much hand-wringing and impassioned commentary over the past thirty-five years: "would it not be better to admit that man in this industrial and scientific age, with its new sociological structure, is no longer capable of a liturgical act?" What I would like to do in this paper is to take up this provocative question, seeking first to understand it from Guardini's perspective, and then to ask it again in our present context. Are we so-called post-moderns in the same bind as Guardini's moderns, or are we, perhaps, more "capable" of the rhythms, gestures, and attitudes that constitute the Kultakt? As a bridge between these two sections of my paper, I will briefly explore Thomas Aquinas' doctrine of worship as an act of religion, which is to say, a virtue in connection with justice. It is my conviction that Thomas's spare account of liturgy as a moral act illumines both Guardini's liturgical theology and our post-modern situation.

Guardini's Kultakt and the Modern Person

What I have noticed in so many of the commentaries on Guardini's 1964 letter is a quality of dismay, even shock: how could one of the pioneers of the liturgical movement have said something so discouraging, especially in the immediate wake of the publication of Sacrosanctum Concilium, seen by many as the culmination of all of the fondest hopes of the liturgical reformers? And how, as Gaudium et Spes itself was in the process of preparation, could this Vatican II peritus have so disparaged the modern person? The usual tack of the mainstream interpreters is to say that Guardini had, by 1964, grown a bit cranky and reactionary and had begun to turn away from the optimism of his youth. One can find a similar interpretive key used to explain the supposed anomolies in the later writings of Ratzinger, de Lubac, Balthasar, Congar and others. But what strikes me is how remarkably congruent the 1964 question is with the entire corpus of Guardini's writings on liturgy and modernity which spans six decades.

In the course of his letter, Guardini identifies three elements that are essential to the Kultakt: attention/contemplation, the integration of body and soul, and communality/participation. He then implies, without providing a detailed justification, that the typically modern attitude is at odds with all three, thereby prompting the famous rhetorical question. I would like to supplement the necessarily sketchy treatment in the letter of 1964 by exploring these three themes and their relation to modernity as articulated in Guardini's earlier and more substantive writings.

One of Guardini's most powerful influences was Goethe, and not simply in the great man's poetry and drama, but especially in his science. Along with Hamaan and Herder, Goethe was one of the earliest critics of the aggressively analytical form of rationality characteristic of modernity. This invasive and finally arrogant mode of reason was exemplified, for him, in the method of Newton. The Newtonian scientist would rip a plant from the ground, place it under bright lights, dissect it and compel it to answer his questions. Goethe felt that this method might yield certain insights, but would never give rise to real knowledge of the object, precisely because it wrestled the object into submission, forcing it into the small, well-lighted space of the subject. In contrast, Goethe proposed a far more contemplative form of science, one that allowed the object to remain in its natural environment and to follow its own rhythms, raising and answering its own questions. Essential to the Goethean method is quiet, attentiveness, and humility before the object of study. In the sixth of his Letters from Lake Como, entitled "Mastery," Guardini shows his preference for this approach:

I have come to realize so clearly these days that there are two ways of knowing. The one sinks into a thing and its context. The aim is to penetrate, to move within, to live with. The other, however, unpacks, tears apart, arranges in compartments, takes over and rules.[1]

As he meditates on this distinction in the setting of Lake Como, he realizes that what accounts for the beauty and integrity of the traditional architecture of the place is just this Goethean concern for the living rapport between earth, water, and building materials. And what he fears is the increasing prominence of the mastering Newtonian attitude, according to which "materials and forces are harnessed, unleashed, burst open, altered and directed at will."[2] The result of this invasion, he thinks, is an easily discernible decrease in the quality of more contemporary architecture and design.

It is the Goethean that Guardini urges again and again as the proper attitude in the liturgical context. In a remarkable series of meditations on liturgical elements and objects – the altar, the lit candle, holy water, the church door, bread and wine – Guardini insists that the meaning of these things will emerge only to the one who gazes at them with endless patience and reverent attention.[3] And we find something similar in the well-known chapter on liturgy as play in his early text Vom Geist der Liturgie. As playful or purposeless, the liturgy is like a work of art which has no other raison d'être than to be itself. But such useless things demand a particularly focused attentiveness: "people who contemplate a work of art should not expect anything of it, but they should be able to linger before it, moving freely, becoming conscious of their own better nature."[4] So the participant in the sacred ballet of the liturgy must put aside his more Newtonian tendencies and learn again how to gaze. The desire to master nature – the stated goal of the archetypically modern method of Descartes – is therefore antipathetic to a properly liturgical consciousness.

The second theme that emerges in the 1964 letter – the union of body and soul – also has a long history in the works of Guardini, but it is nowhere more fully developed than in his 1923 text Liturgische Bildung (Liturgical Education). In the chapter entitled "Body and Soul," Guardini launches into a spirited attack on all forms of neo-Platonic, Manichaean, or Puritanistic dualism that would denigrate or set aside the body in favor of the spiritual faculty. "What assumes a liturgical posture, what prays, sacrifices and acts is not 'the soul,' not 'interiority,' but the human being. The entire human being bears the liturgical action."[5] Drawing on Thomas Aquinas, Guardini holds that the soul, though it has its own spiritual integrity, nevertheless remains forma corporis and the "living entelechy of the body."[6]

Now it is not only neo-Platonism and its descendents that propose a type of dualism. One of the great marks of the modern Cartesian project is a radical separation of body and soul, the latter knowable through a clear and distinct intuition and the former belonging to the dubious realm of the sensible. And this drastic separation between the res cogitans and the res extensa, of course, gave rise to the characteristically modern prejudice in favor of the "Innerlichkeit" that arouses Guardini's suspicions. Hence Spinoza, Kant and Hegel all favor a religion of reason over and against the sensual and historically-conditioned positive religions; Schleiermacher, sharing that same prejudice, seeks the source of faith in the deepest ground of one's interiority, in the feeling of absolute dependency. And Schleiermacher's twentieth-century intellectual successors, Paul Tillich and Karl Rahner, take as their point of orientation, not the bodily particulars of revelation, but the inner sense of being, respectively, "ultimately concerned" and "in the presence of absolute mystery." An exaggerated Innerlichkeit was, for Guardini, a problem in certain forms of pre-conciliar piety, but it was, even more dramatically, a problem at the heart of the modern project, particularly in its religious expression.

And the third motif from the letter of 1964 – the primacy of community in the liturgy – is also a consistent theme in Guardini's texts. Guardini belonged to that generation who, inspired by the Tübingen school of the 19th century, reclaimed the concept of the Corpus Christi mysticum in connection with ecclesiology. Moving away from secular political models, Guardini and his colleagues employed organic images in their articulation of the nature of the Church. Thus we find this splendid text in The Spirit of the Liturgy:

The faithful are actively united by a vital and fundamental principle commom to them all. That principle is Christ himself; His life is ours; we are incorporated in Him; we are his Body, Corpus Christi mysticum. The active force which governs this living unity, grafting the individual on to it, granting him a share in its fellowship…is the Holy Ghost. Every individual Catholic is a cell of this living organism or a member of this Body.[7]

The liturgy is the place where the identity of this living Body is on display and acted out. And this is why "the liturgy does not say 'I' but 'We,'" and why the "we" includes, not only those present at the celebration, but all believers in Christ across time and space, including those who have found their dwelling place among the Communio sanctorum. Guardini's contemporary, Henri de Lubac, made this same point even more dramatically when he argued, in his book Catholicisme, that every dogma of Christianity – Incarnation, Redemption, Creation, Eucharist, the Church – is social and not individualist in nature.

What was motivating this strong re-emphasis on communality and connectedness? To a large extent, it was the stress placed by modernity on the primacy and autonomy of the individual, both in knowledge and action. In the Discourse on Method, Descartes makes it abundantly clear that his intercourse among the various cultures and his conversations with his fellows led, at the epistemological level, only to confusion and frustration. Only when he retreated into that famous heated room in Ulm, and withdrew into the silence of his interiority, did Descartes find the indubitable knowledge he was seeking. Hobbes, breaking with a centuries-long tradition that saw the common good as the focus of political life, held that authentic political science must be grounded in the "rights" of the fearful individual; and Kant maintained that the starting-point for morality is not in the outside realm of motivation, consequences, and interdependent activity, but in the luminosity of the moral law shining at the heart of the individual will. All of this obviously shaped the modern consciousness, even in the arena of theology and spirituality. To take but one example among many, Paul Tillich's theology of correlation sought a correspondance between the truths revealed in the Biblical tradition and the anxious concerns of the post-Freudian twentieth-century individual. Thus, it is not difficult to see why Guardini felt that, in his individualism, the modern person was incapable of the essentially communal act of the liturgy.

We have filled out a bit the sketch that Guardini offered in his letter of 1964, but if we want to get to the heart of his argument concerning the incompatibility of the modern consciousness and the liturgical act, we have to move beyond the three elements mentioned in the letter and find the Ur-problem of which they are but expressions. Guardini's principle complaint about modernity has to do with the abuse of power. The characteristically modern person, in his darkest incarnation, exercises raw power, unanchored to nature, ethical values, or the commands of God, and this has made him, paradoxically, the slave of power: "People today hold power over things, but we can assert confidently that they do not yet have power over their own power."[8] Once power is seized for its own sake – Descartes' mastery over nature again – it becomes a fetish and then a sort of Frankenstein's monster, threatening the very one who created it:

When we examine the development as a whole, we cannot escape the impression that nature as well as man himself is becoming ever more vulnerable to the domination – economic, technical, political, organizational – of power.[9]

There is, to be sure, something distinctive to the modern abuse of power, but in its essence, it is nothing new. Guardini sees power as the central category in the Biblical story of the Fall. Made in the image and likeness of God, the human being was given nearly free-rein in the Garden of creation, naming the animals and eating the fruit of all the trees but one. This pre-lapsarian liberty and ranginess is an icon of the proper exercise of human power. Linked to God and obedient to his commands, the first humans were the lords and stewards of creation and not its masters.

At the heart of the serpent's temptation, on Guardini's reading, is a lure in the direction of pure and arbitrary power:

The serpent, a symbolical figure for Satan, confuses man by misrepresenting the fundamental facts of human existence: the essential difference between Creator and created; between Archetype and image; between self-realization through truth and through usurpation.[10]

The same theme is hinted at in the Letters from Lake Como, where Guardini insistently complains about a technological culture that succeeds only in getting us places faster without giving us the foggiest notion of what we should do when we get there. The will to power, in Nietzsche's phrase, or the libido dominandi in Augustine's language, is the result of the ontological confusion that follows from severing the link between creature and Creator.

Christianity proposes a solution to this ontological/moral problem, indeed the only possible solution, for it speaks to us of the humility of God. In the face of the various abuses of power, sages and philosophers had indeed proposed the virtues of moderation and self-control, but these are only pseudo-solutions, since they are "attempts to erect a stand, an order within disordered existence." Salvation in the proper sense, Guardini argues, had to involve a remaking of creation itself from within by the one powerful enough to effect such a transformation. In other words, it required a God humble enough to become a creature. When Jesus, the Son of God, obeyed the will of his Father even to the point of death, he disclosed the true nature of power as humility, a turning to the other in love, and in this he broke the spell of arbitrary power which had bedeviled the race since Eden. It is important to note that Jesus is not simply a creature acknowledging his radical dependence on the Creator; he is God himself showing that obedience belongs to the very nature of God, that ultimate power and the kenosis of love coincide.

In light of this Christology, it is easy to see why Guardini was so enamored of the idea of the mystical body. The hold of arbitrary power over us can be dissolved only in the measure that we are grafted onto the living embodiement of the divine humility. It is never simply a matter of taking in a new teaching; it is becoming someone different through organic participation. And, as we have seen, such participation is affected precisely in the sacraments, including and especially the Eucharistic liturgy. Thus we come to the heart of the matter and to the fullest illumination of Guardini's 1964 letter. At the center of the liturgy is the establishment of a new order, an ontological realignment, a correction of the disorder born of the abuse of power:

Man is not constructed to be complete in himself and, in addition, capable of entering into relations with God or not as he sees fit. His very essence consists in his relation to God and what he understands by that relationship; how seriously he takes it and what he does about it are the determining factors of his character… God is the Reality on whom all other realities, including the human, are founded. When existence fails to give him his due, existence sickens.[11]

Liturgy is the act by which we participate in Christ, the humility of God, and thereby render God what is due to him, re-establishing the right ordo between Creator and creature. The reason that the modern person finds this act so difficult is that it is healthy, and his existence has become sick through self-aggrandizement.

An Aquinas Interlude

The language of rendering to God his due calls to mind the theologian whose thought would have been profoundly formative for any Catholic of Guardini's generation, viz. Thomas Aquinas. Thomas discusses the worship of God in the course of the massive second part of the Summa theologiae, which deals with the moral life or the journey back to the cause from which all things have come. Accordingly, worship, like any other moral act, is situated, for Thomas, in a richly ontological context: somehow it has to do with the establishment of a right order in being. Exploring Aquinas's treatment of this motif will shed light, I hope, on Guardini's idea of the liturgy as a re-ordering of the creature in relation to God.

What we call "liturgy" or the formal public worship of God Thomas places under the heading of religion which is further specified as one of the potential parts of justice, that is to say, a virtue annexed to, but falling short of, the fullness of justice. Following Cicero, Aquinas says that justice is the virtue by which we "render to another his due" and that religion, the act by which we "offer service and ceremonial rites or worship to some superior nature," is a specification of this virtue in regard to God.[12] Now it is at this point that Aquinas affects his customary Christian radicalization of a classical philosophical source. While Cicero can speak of the divine as a "superior nature" to which obeisance and honor are due, Thomas must speak of God as the Creator of all finite existence ex nihilo and hence as the one to whom absolutely everything is due.

In his great texts on creation from the first part of the Summa theologiae, Aquinas is at pains to describe creation as an absolutely unique act, distinguishing it carefully from all forms of motion, change, or manipulation. Since God is the sheer act of to-be, whatever exists apart from God owes the entirety of its being to God, participating in the source of existence as the light in the atmosphere participates in the light of the sun. Since all finite reality comes from God, there is, in creation, no substrate upon which God works or no subject that receives the causal influence of God. Creation is not in time, since time is a creature; it does not occur in the arena of space, since space is a creature. Unlike any of the mythic or philosophical accounts of beginnings, there is nothing that God has to fight against or wrestle into submission. Rather, as John Milbank has seen, creatio ex nihilo is an utterly non-violent act. When, in the disputed question De Potentia Dei, he is pressed to specify the "locus" of the act of creation, Thomas adopts Zen-like language: "that which receives creation is created by the very act that it receives."[13] Later in that same text he utilizes what can only be called metaphysical poetry: "Creation is a kind of relation to the Creator with freshness of being." And since the creature is nothing else than this divine act by which it comes into being, it must follow that the creature, as such, is a relationship to the divine source, an unalloyed receptivity, an acceptance of the non-violent intervention of God. Gerard Manley Hopkins expressed much the same thing when he spoke, in "The Grandeur of God," of "the dearest freshness deep down things."

What therefore is worship, the just act by which we thank God for the gift of our total existence, but the ritual affirmation of our creatureliness, our sheer relationality to the to-be of God? What is it but the gesture which sums up our being, rightly construed? This is why Thomas speaks of religion as the "chief of the moral virtues:" as the acting-out of our deepest ontological identity, it is the act which informs, conditions, and directs all the other acts that order us to God. And therefore it is not inappropriate to characterize the liturgy as the proper setting for the Christian moral life, the place where the virtues, in their authentically Christian form, appear and find their purpose. As many have pointed out, the interpretations of the virtues proferred by Aristotle and Cicero are transformed in a Christian setting, and here we can see the reason for it. The pagan virtues, including religion itself, are transfigured by their contextualization in the liturgy, that is to say, in the ritual acknowledgement of creation from nothing.

How might the follower of Aquinas respond to Guardini's question concerning the compatibility of the religious act and the modern consciousness? He or she might situate the question in the broader context of the breakdown of the participation metaphysics that made possible the distinctively modern construal of the subject. When the creature is seen as deriving its existence in the most intimate sense possible from God, then creaturely being, though really distinct from God, is in an analogical relationship to the divine reality. But this means, in turn, that creaturely being is, by nature, ecstatic and not autonomous. It furthermore implies that every creature is connected through the center of its being to every other creature, so that Francis' statement about brother Sun and sister Moon could be not only a charming bit of poetry but a rather exact metaphysical remark. Now when this conception began to unravel, first through Duns Scotus's introduction of a univocal sense of being and then through the Reformers' distantiation of God, a properly secular realm emerged, that is to say, an arena of finite being that could ground itself. The breakdown of an analogical conception of being led also to a fundamentally antagonistic social ontology, the link between creatures having been eliminated.[14] Thus, Descartes was right in holding to the autonomy and self-validation of the individual, and Hobbes was right in seeing social life as, by nature, "nasty, brutish, and short." What makes the modern successors of Descartes and Hobbes incapable of the liturgical act? The disciple of Aquinas might respond: the loss of a participation/creation metaphysics and hence the attenuation of any sense of an ecstatic and communitarian self.

Both Guardini and Aquinas signal the unavoidable difficulty of the liturgical act, really, for any sinner of any era. In the measure that the self-elevating ego is dominant--through pride, power, concupiscence, the libido dominandi – the metaphysical rectitude of the liturgical act will be hard to sustain. But the modern person, in his conscious and unapologetic claim to autonomy, is perhaps uniquely ill-disposed to it.

The Liturgical Act in the Twenty-First Century

What is the resonance of Guardini's question when we hear it posed in our midst, at the dawn of the 21st century? And how would we answer it? In light of the numerous post-modern critiques of modernity – many of which were remarkably adumbrated in Guardini's early texts – we are, I would submit, a bit less surprised and dismayed by his question than were many of his contemporaries. We are far less sanguine about the modern person and her capacities, especially in regard to the radicality of Christian life. At the end of the bloodiest century on record, we are, to say the least, skeptical about the gloriously autonomous human subject. We know that those who wreaked havoc on earth in the 20th century were not those who looked to God but those who explicitly denied him and relied on their own freedom. And we see precisely what Guardini saw in the 1920's: an embrace of power disconnected to truth (the exclusive primacy of the "can" over the "ought") led by a short road to moral chaos and the piling up of corpses. Simply in light of this post-modern awareness of the dire practical consequences of autonomous subjectivity, we are more capable of the liturgical act, readier to engage in the great practice of the God-centered self.

But I would like to make this general observation more exact by looking at two prominent themes in the writings of post-liberal theologians: anti-foundationalism and the critique of experiential-expressivism. It has become a commonplace among post-liberals that the liberal project of grounding knowledge on some one unshakeable foundation is deluded. There have been two great versions of this liberal proposal, the empirical, associated with Locke, Hume, and the logical positivists, and the rational, associated with, among many others, Descartes and Kant. According to the first, certain knowledge is guaranteed, finally, by the objectivity and verifiability of sense experience. But it is generally acknowledged among post-moderns that all sense experience, even the simplest and most "objective" is in fact "theory-laden," shaped by expectation, context, point-of-view, the assumptions of one's community, etc. For the second form of foundationalism, sure knowledge is grounded in some commonly-held inner intuition or conviction – Descartes's cogito, Kant's a priori forms, Schleiermacher's feeling of absolute dependency, Tillich's ultimate concern, etc. But here again, post-modern critics have called radically into question any claim to a universal intuition independent of language, way of life, and the conditioning of one's tradition. (Whatever Schleiermacher meant by "the feeling of absolute dependency," he had that feeling, not because he was human, but because he was Christian).

These criticisms are important for our purposes because they serve to question the autonomous subject. In either of its basic forms, foundationalism claims a ground for knowledge and action in the experience of the self, in what the subject sees or knows through its own perceptive powers. But a creation metaphysics disallows just this sort of self-reliance. The created self, as we have seen, is inescapably an ecstatic self, one that finds literally nothing in itself to stand on. And the liturgy is the arena for the expression of this self that finds its one foundation in the Creator God. Therefore the post-liberal antifoundationalist remains, at least in principle, more capable of the ecstacy of a properly liturgical act.

The second trend within post-liberalism that I would like to explore is the movement away from what George Lindbeck has called an "experiential-expressivist" model of doctrine toward what he terms a "cultural-linguistic" one. The first, assumed by most forms of theological liberalism, relates doctrine to experience as effect to cause, the latter giving rise to the former as its symbolic expression. Because it rests on essentially foundationalist assumptions, this approach, despite its enormous popularity, has been characterized by Lindbeck and others as theologically inadequate. What Lindbeck proposes as an alternative is the so-called cultural-linguistic model which, in a certain sense, relates doctrine to experience as effect to cause, the former shaping and determining the latter, much as the rules of a game determine the play of the participants. This second approach, closely tied to St. Paul's insistence that fides ex auditu, allows us to give an account of the densely-textured particularity of Christianity, for the doctrines, beliefs, practices, and rituals of the Church really produce a new form of life in those who move in accordance with them.

In the liberal framework, something like liturgy is important only in the measure that it provides a means of expression for deep-seated experiences of the sacred; whereas on the cultural-linguistic reading, the liturgy is indispensible to the shaping and transforming of those who participate in it. When Guardini calls for the awakening of a Goethean contemplative gaze in the liturgical context, when he insists that we look meditatively on candles, altars, bread, wine, and water, so that we might be changed by them, he is presupposing what Lindbeck called a cultural-linguistic framework. If all of the movements and objects of the liturgy are but expressions of an underlying religious sensibility, why gaze so attentively on them? In point of fact, why not reduce them to a bare minimum, the better to rest in the peace of our inner experience? This supposition appears even more clearly when Guardini argues that the liturgical act amounts to a sort of metaphysical and psychological re-alignment, a rendering to God what is due. We don't shape the liturgy; it shapes us. And inasmuch as Thomas Aquinas takes the virtue of religion to be the chief of the moral virtues, he is assuming that the liturgical act is much more than an expression of an underlying experience; he is presuming that it makes us good.

Can we see the three negative qualities mentioned in Guardini's 1964 letter – lack of a contemplative attitude, the favoring of Innerlichkeit over body/soul unity, and exaggerated individualism – as typical by-products of experiential-expressivism? And can we therefore appreciate in the post-liberal criticism of that style an important point of contact with the mind and spirit of Guardini?


Perhaps at the end of these reflections, I can return, briefly, to the beginning, to the question that the post-conciliar liturgical establishment has found difficult to understand. It seemed to them that Guardini was recommending an abandonment of the great project: if liturgy itself is out of step with modernity, the work of reform has been a waste of time. But this very construal of his remark indicates the epistemological problem at the heart of too much post-conciliar reflection: the privileging of modernity and its assumptions over the radical, surprising, and finally, trans-temporal convictions of the Church. It was Edward Schillebeeckx who commented ruefully that the Catholic Church embraced the modern at the very moment that the modern was losing confidence in itself. Thus the liturgical establishment got it precisely backward: Guardini was not implying that we abandon the liturgy or its reform, but he was implying that we ought perhaps to abandon modernity. And this does not mean, of course, that we should turn our backs on the contemporary world, or much less, on the concerns and hopes of contemporary men and women. It means that the metaphysical and above all epistemic convictions of modernity mix awkwardly at best with the "world" opened up by the liturgy.

The project is not shaping the liturgy according to the suppositions of the age, but allowing the liturgy to question and shape the suppositions of any age. Is the modern man incapable of the liturgical act? Probably. But this is no ground for despair, for our goal is not to accommodate the liturgy to the world, but to let the liturgy be itself – a transformative icon of the ordo of God.

[1] Romano Guardini, Letters from Lake Como, trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans, 1994), 43.

[2] Ibid., 46.

[3] See Romano Guardini, Sacred Signs, tr. Grace Branham, (St. Louis: Pio Decimo, 1956), 21-68.

[4] Romano Guardini, On the Spirit of the Liturgy, (New York: Herder and Herder, 1998), 69.

[5] "Was in der liturgischen Haltung steht, was betet, opfert und handelt, is nicht "die Seele," nicht "die Innerlichkeit," sondern "der Mensch." Der ganze Mensch trägt das liturgische Tun." Romano Guardini, Liturgische Bildung, 1923.

[6] "Die Seele ist lebendige Entelechie des Leibes." Ibid. 31.

[7] Romano Guardini, The Spirit of the Liturgy, 37.

[8] Romano Guardini, The End of the Modern World, (Wilmington: Intercollegiate Studies Institute, 1998), 109.

[9] Romano Guardini, Ibid., 125.

[10] Ibid., 137.

[11] Romano Guardini, Ibid. 92.

[12] Thomas Aquinas, ST IIa IIae, q. 80, art. 1.

[13] Thomas Aquinas, Quaestiones Disuptatae de potentia Dei, q. 3, art. 1, ad 17